


three steps from loving me

by rxcrcfllptrs



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human, Bakery, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Ice Skating, Language of Flowers, M/M, Pining, School Dances, Sharing a Bed, teenage angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-21 07:04:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17638073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rxcrcfllptrs/pseuds/rxcrcfllptrs
Summary: A love story told in eight parts, of two worlds coming together into their own microcosm of the universe.





	1. be tormented by me, babe

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Mika's "[Step With Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=73TTtQIRgPM)", and is 100% just me indulging my favourite soft tropes with these guys. Big, big thank you to [soffgluten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soffgluten), [Myceratops](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myceratops), and [GreenDevilSam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenDevilSam) for looking this over.
> 
> I also made a playlist containing the songs referenced in the chapter titles (as well as some extra ones that fit the mood). Have a listen!: [Spotify Link](https://open.spotify.com/user/12167928014/playlist/2KRbLcmMKGp42XkNuN06No?si=nfdbf3cTSHGOznKrhzhjQA).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Carly Rae Jepsen's "[Emotion](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kV9sNmujCPk)".

The tick of the clock seems so loud, reverberating in Conrad’s skull as it drowns out his homeroom teacher’s monotone voice. The day just can’t seem to pass by fast enough.

Solace from dull routine comes in the form of Principal Stern’s voice immediately overpowering Graff’s. No nonsense, straight to the point. “Good morning, Mr. Graff. I’m here to inform you that your class has a new student, Mr. Connor Anderson,” Stern isn’t alone, accompanied by a pale face, rosy blush in their cheeks, wrapped in a dark blue scarf.

“I hope he integrates well and excels in his own realm of studies, whatever they may be,” she glances back at Anderson, nodding curtly and then leaving the new student to his own business.

 

Connor falls along with some members of the school’s ragtag misfit crew, Markus and Kara. Markus tells him there’s some others (North, Simon, Josh, Daniel…) and claps his back － there’s an unmistakeable flinch at the contact － enthusiastic about the prospect of a new friend. Markus’ smile fades a little at Connor’s reaction and makes a note of it for next time.

“So what are you into, Connor? We have Club Day coming up soon, we could show you around and get you signed up for something,” Kara suggests, smiling kindly. She herself was in an animal welfare club, volunteering for shelters when she can. “You also have the choice not to, of course, but ‘strongly encouraged’ usually means mandatory here.”

Connor is quiet for a second, biting the inside of his cheek in thought. “No, I know, I know. Just… is there some sort of art club here?” he rummages through his bag, unearthing a worn sketchbook with tiny doodles on the cover. Markus’ eyes light up. “Yes!”

“My dad － Carl Manfred, like the painter － does workshops with the Art Society here. He’s having a workshop at the upcoming Club Day, 2PM at AD104!” Connor’s noting all this down, certainly not wanting to miss this. “I think you’ll enjoy it, if this is anything to go by,” Markus taps on the sketchbook.

“Well that’s settled, then!” there’s a sparkle in Kara’s eyes, amusement and joy glittering at the prospect of getting to know a new friend.

 

_Her hair isn’t all blonde_ , Conrad thinks as he picks up stray strands from Chloe’s ponytail. She’s used to this behavior by now, turning a page on her new read for the week. “Something’s bothering you.”

Conrad’s hand stills, _wow, was I that obvious?_ “What makes you so sure about that, Sherlock?”

“You’re fidgeting again. Which means you’re bored and getting bothered by something, especially since you’re using my hair to fidget again,” she says all of this very matter-of-factly, turning her head to face his swirling greys with her intense blues. “Class got you down?”

He scoffs. “Of course not, class is just going along as it’s always been.”

A beat passes, someone in the library coughs, the sound of papers shuffling.

“There’s a new kid in our class,” _and there it is_. “There’s something different about him, and I can’t place it. I’ve been trying to turn it all different ways in my head, but it’s just not budging and… and I can’t finish my book because of it!” he despairs, limp arm outstretched towards his copy of _The Prince_ askew on the table. “It’s frustrating,” he rests his chin on the edge of the table, glum.

Chloe can’t help but smile at her friend’s antics. “People aren’t just puzzles for you to solve, Conrad,” gingerly patting his pristine hair. He huffs in response.

Speak of the devil, the subject of their discussion runs into the library, out of breath and clutching his bag. Chloe turns to look at the newcomer, watching his shy demeanor and nervous mannerisms as he talks to a librarian. Conrad barely glances his way, sighing and lolling his head to the side so he can’t see whoever had just arrived. “People aren’t puzzles, I’m aware, but I’d still like to get to the bottom of whatever…” he waves a hand. “ _This_ is.”

Connor disappears into the depths of the bookshelves, and Chloe looks back to Conrad, amused. “I’m sure you’ll be able to find that out for yourself soon enough.”


	2. tell me, let me know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A happenstance encounter at a coffee shop, colors coming to life on canvas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Perfume's "[Let Me Know](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hXxDNaSzRwg)".

Connor can feel the pads of his fingers nigh burning on the rough paper, trying to produce the effects he wants with the pencils he has. _Something still isn’t right_ , and he’s direly tempted to start over.

He’s at a local coffee shop, one he’s has come to associate with the PD as their regular go-to for caffeination. It was something about supporting local and an incident where the coffeemaker stayed broken for a whole 3 days and being forced to find a local source so that everyone could stay mildly sane until the machine got fixed. The coffeemaker got fixed a while back, Hank tells Connor, but the place stuck.

Today’s the apparently highly-awaited Club Day, and Hank can’t take him to school any later than first thing in the morning, so Connor had the choice of waiting at the police station or being at home and taking himself to school. _Obvious choice._ He takes a sip of his hot chocolate, tilting his head this way and that to see if there’s any hope of salvaging this piece.

He sighs, thumbing a corner of the paper before tearing off the page － the _rrrrrip!_ loud and cathartic － and starting over.

 

_Busy cities are all the same_ , Conrad thinks, shoving his hands in the pockets of his coat. He’s out and about after exiting CyberLife’s pristine tower situated at the heart of downtown. Not quite headquarters, but certainly one of the more prominent buildings shaping the skyline. It’s all loud too and frankly, he needs some kind of break from his obnoxious overlapping thoughts.

The heady scent of freshly brewed coffee, the clear bell chime signaling his arrival seemed like a good place to settle down for the moment.

He’s waiting in line, looking around when his eyes fall on a familiar － but not _that_ familiar － head of dark hair. He sucks in a breath, his quieting thoughts returning to the forefront in full force. This stranger, newcomer, thinks it’s okay to just invade on Conrad’s space? Take up a wedge in his mind and now more so in a cafe he’s happened upon? _Kismet_ , the word blinks into Conrad’s head, but he waves it away as nonsense. He fumes silently all the way up to the register to make his order.

 

“Is this seat taken?” a voice breaks through Connor’s contemplations, intense blue-grey eyes and a strong grip on the back of said chair.  For a moment, Connor feels his throat go dry.

“No, it’s not. Go ahead,” he vaguely wishes that his schoolmate only intends to steal the chair for another table, but his heart still goes a-tittering when they seat themself at his table.

They set their tray on the table, black coffee and a raspberry danish. “I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced,” they say, taking a sip of their drink. “Conrad Kamski, we’re in the same class,” with a tilt of their head, the previous intensity melt away to betray curious baby blues.

“Connor Anderson,” feeling self-conscious of his work all of a sudden, Connor closes his sketchbook, away from prying blue eyes. “Surprised to see you here. No club activities this morning?”

There’s a look of _something_ in Conrad’s eye that flits by too fast for Connor to recognize. “No, I don’t have mine until the evening,” Conrad says as he sets down the coffee cup. “What about you? I heard something about the workshop the Art Society is having in a few hours. Getting a head start?” he tilts his head towards the closed sketchbook.

Connor looks down at the shabby brown paper book like a lifeline. “I just... really like to draw,” there’s a faraway look in his eye for a moment. “But yeah, I’ll be going to the workshop Markus’ dad is holding.

They end up talking about small, inconsequential things about themselves to pass the time. Favorite color (azure for Connor, deep red for Conrad), drink orders (hot chocolate, americano), fruit (strawberries, pomegranates), among others. All too soon, Connor’s phone goes off with the reminder to go to school for the workshop. He almost curses it for interrupting pleasant conversation.

Connor can feel eyes on him as he packs up to leave. “So… how were you planning on getting to school?”

_Weird question_. “I was gonna take the bus and walk the rest of the way.”

There’s a slight frown on Conrad’s face. “Would you be against me taking you to school instead? It is an awful long walk from the nearest bus stop.”

“No, no! That’d be great, actually,” Connor flusters, “Are you sure it isn’t any trouble? I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“Connor,” exasperation bleeding through. “I’m the one who offered. Don’t worry about it.”

So he goes.

 

This is how Conrad gets roped into participating in the art workshop, seated beside Connor, his desk bearing its own empty sketchpad. Connor is taking stock of what’s in the desk drawers, some coloring implements and pencils, and looks like he’s ready to start drawing even without prompt. There’s a very sudden urge to rest his cheek on Connor’s arm, one that Conrad nearly gives into － but only nearly.

Carl Manfred is wheeled into the room by a smiling Markus, quieting down the chatter in the room of waiting students. The man has a gentle but commanding presence, age lines a strong indicator of experience and wisdom. “Good afternoon, everyone. If you weren’t planning on spending the afternoon drawing, then you might have the wrong workshop,” the introduction elicits some amusement from his audience. “But if you did plan on it, or are just along for the ride, welcome. Let’s have a good time.”

The topic today is color theory, about picking colors that would work well when put together in a piece. _Would explain why there’s so many pens here_. The entire thing goes over Conrad’s head, frankly. He drew a close approximation of an emerald green tree with bright red apples (green blob with red dots on a brown stick), gave up, and instead chose to watch Connor draw whatever it is he was working on.

“Wow,” Conrad breathes out. In the same span of time, Connor had managed to draw a pomegranate that looked like it could be picked off the page. He had a reference on his phone beside him, but nevertheless it was still lifelike with its red-purple-green coloration and the seeds like gems spilling out. “That looks really, really good. I could eat it off the page.”

Connor pinks a little. “Thanks, I tried to make it as realistic as possible. It’s hard to get right without a real pomegranate, but I think it’s close.” He nearly jumps at the feeling of a hand on his shoulder, and quickly whirls around to see Mr. Manfred looking over his work.

“Looking good, son. Keep that up, you got a bright future ahead of you,” Mr. Manfred remarks with a kind smile, then looks over at Conrad’s pad. “And I assume you were one of the students just along for the ride?” eyes crinkling with mirth.

Conrad looks away, scoffing. Beyond that, Conrad says nothing. Connor startles at how closed off the other boy suddenly became, but Mr. Manfred is unfazed, chuckling to himself.

“Well, I hope you enjoyed your time here, anyway,” and then he wheels away to look at the other students’ works.

“Conrad?” Connor’s gentle voice brings Conrad back. “You know you didn’t need to stay, right? I hope this wasn’t too much trouble for you.”

“No!” Conrad returns a bit forcefully, startling him. “I mean, no,” he straightens himself out, voice even. “I enjoyed this. It was no trouble at all.”

The admittance upturns the corners of Connor’s mouth to a smile. “I’m glad.”

And Conrad can’t help but smile back.

 

On the ride home, Connor can’t help but smile to himself in recollection of the events that happened today. He’s looking forward to going home and finishing the sketch from the coffee shop. Hank notices this and nudges him about it. “Anything going on, son? Met someone at school today?”

The thought makes Connor giddy, evident in his reply. “Yeah, something like that…”


	3. and the world was small

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone falls in the library. If there's no one around to catch them, can a heart still make a sound?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Parachute's "[Kiss Me Slowly](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lXqYw_II6Pc)".

Weekends are for grocery shopping. The _squeak, squeak, squeak_ of the shopping cart as it bears the load of household products and perishables. Connor is technically in charge of the grocery list ( _vegetables, meats, ready-to-eats, cleaners..._ ), but he turns a blind eye when his dad sneaks in a pack of beer or a bag of chips in the cart.

Connor’s confronted him about this before ( _“Dad, you should really be watching what you eat.” “Don’t ‘cheat days’ exist anymore?”_ ) and he surmises that giving a little can help stave off massive cravings. He makes a note to look it up when they get home.

After everything is checked out and they’re back in the car, Connor toys with a stray thread of his sweater before asking. “Could I go out for the afternoon? I kinda wanted to go to the public library and check out some books.”

Hank turns to look at him for a moment, brow furrowing. “Where’s this coming from? Are we outta books at home?”

Connor’s shoulders lift to a near imperceptible shrug. “I wanted to get out of the house for a bit. Get some fresh air,” he turns to look at his dad. “I’m 17, dad. I have yours and everyone else’s number at the PD. I’ll be fine.”

Starting the car before pausing and letting out a loud sigh, Hank relents. “Okay. Just get home before dark, I’ll drop you off at the public library.”

 

“Before dark!” Hank reminds Connor when he gets out of the car.

“I got it, I got it. I love you, dad,” Connor keeps his hand on his satchel, smiling at his dad from the curb. The severe look on his dad’s face softens. “Love you too, son.”

And then Connor turns around as the car speeds away. He makes it a note to visit every public library in any place he’s gone to, regardless of how long their stay is in a location. He runs up the steps, even taking a selfie with the facade of the building, demeanor not unlike an excited puppy seeing the sea for the first time.

 

Connor ends up carrying an almost comical stack of books that he can rest his chin on, hobbling along without being able to see where he’s going. _So hard not to, when they have so many good ones._ Thankfully, there isn’t that many people around to stare at him and his ridiculous state right now. He could trip and no one would be the wiser!

...

 _Shit_. As Murphy’s law would have it, Connor misjudged the distance of a half-step between him and the table areas, and the world falls into some kind of slow motion as he starts tumbling forward. He swears he sees his life flash before his eyes. _Down, down, down, but…_ Just as Connor is about to fall, a strong arm catches him by the waist. The books tumble to the floor in a clatter.

Connor stands to reorient, a hasty apology and thanks to whoever caught him before he fell at the tip of his tongue. He turns around and locks his gaze with an intense gray stare. “Conrad.”

“Fancy meeting you here,” Connor wills himself to not blush, but is especially difficult with a strong grip around his waist. Conrad’s eyes flicker from his own eyes, and there’s barest hint of the grey-eyed boy licking his lips. Connor feels warm all over, locked in this moment. Then springing like a dam, time ticks forward again.

Conrad helps him put back a few of the books, leaving Connor with a sizable but not ridiculous pile beside him. They returned a few of the thicker fantasy books, some hardbound art books, and － to Connor’s embarrassment － some of the indulgent romance novels hiding under all of those other ones. He doesn’t meet Conrad’s eyes when they return those to their respective shelves, too busy flushing red at the thought of the other boy’s judgment. Neither say a word about it.

“So, I’m guessing you’re a reader?” Conrad notes with an amused smile, as Connor cracks open one of the first books at the bottom of the pile. ( _I chose them first, so they get read first._ He prepares the explanation in case Conrad asks.)

“Yeah. I read a lot of fantasy novels, they tend to describe a lot of things about places I’ve never been to. Might never get to, ever, depending on the book,” Connor’s already skimming through some of this book, cataloguing names he’d only read about in online synopses and book reviews. “It helps me draw more, especially things that I don’t just see every day.”

Conrad nods, _makes sense_. He doesn’t ask about the romance novels, and the art books seem self-explanatory enough. “What about you?”

Connor’s question makes Conrad tilt his head. “What about me?”

“Well I don’t think you’d just go here for the ambience,” Connor remarks, looking up to lock eyes with the other and waving a hand towards the general establishment. “I don’t mean to assume, but it just doesn’t seem your style, you know?”

Conrad blinks. Very few people dare to voice any sort of presupposition of him to his face, always a sharp retort coming after. “I guess…” he remembers the book in his own hands. “Yeah, you’re not wrong about that.”

There’s a considerable pause before he speaks again.

“Not every book in our study is interesting to me,” _far from it, there’s too much about robotics and society building and even his own_ father _in it_. “At some point, we ran out, and I don’t particularly plan on staying in empty rooms for the rest of my days.” An understanding nod, the sound of a page turning, a scribble on a page. Connor had produced a notebook from seemingly nowhere and was scribbling notes, some quick sketches on the margins.

“What about what you’re reading right now?” Connor quickly glances up from his notebook to make sure he was looking at Conrad’s book right. “From the looks of it, it seems complicated, way above this art nerd’s realm of understanding,” he says cheekily, and Conrad has the strongest urge to convince him otherwise.

Instead, he looks down and turns the book around in his hands, one of his fingers keeping his place on the book. “It’s just a physics book on some old breakthroughs that I read about on the internet. I saw it was available in the public library and I had the time, so why not?”

“Mhm,” was Connor’s only remark. _How can you say so many things without actually saying anything about yourself at all?_

They sit in companionable silence for a while, that while lasting until Connor manages to cut down his reading pile to half at a remarkable pace. But, Conrad still has to talk him through which books he’d actually like to check out at the end of the day. (“But… but I want all of them.” “Sure, but will you be able to read them all in the two weeks you have them?”)

 

After that’s all said and done, Conrad suggests they go to a bakery a little ways away from the public library. _Funny how you phrase that, like it’s a quaint mom and pop storefront but is actually an upper class patisserie at a 5-star hotel_. “Don’t worry, I’ll pay,” Conrad assures him, when Connor finds himself gaping at the facade of a hotel whose rates he likely won’t be able to afford in his lifetime.

Connor keeps to himself, walking slightly behind the other boy who acted like he was here every other day － which, based on the new information he has on Conrad, might not be too far off from the truth. Connor feels the need to make himself small, hunching his shoulders but keeping up with Connor’s long strides, one hand clutching his satchel and the other clenched in his coat pocket. He feels almost like a fraud, treading shiny marble floors with his own well-worn shoes.

They sit down on comfortable plush chairs suited for a luxury catalogue or a palace, as a waiter comes to give Conrad a menu and set down the other in front of Connor. The entire time that the waiter is taking their order, Conrad can’t help but send some puzzled (or maybe concerned?) looks towards Connor’s way.

After the waiter goes to prepare their meal, Conrad turns his full attention to the distressed Connor sitting in front of him. “Relax,” he manages to say, sliding a hand on the table for Connor to take. Chloe sometimes does it, when Conrad’s far too deep into his thoughts and needs a way out. “It’s just me.”

There’s a shuddering breath, Connor isn’t sure if it’s a reaction to the air conditioning, or to his current emotional state, a mix of both, or something else entirely. He smiles, though it ends up looking plaintive than grateful. “Thank you,” he nods at the offered hand but doesn’t take it. “I appreciate it.”

The expression of gratitude hangs in the air, dissolving into what is ultimately awkward silence. Connor’s eyes end up drinking in his surroundings (decorations bordering on excessive, technology that looks more appropriate in a sci-fi movie than a commercial establishment, every details perfectly positioned nary a hair out of place), seeing everything everywhere, as long as it wasn’t him looking at Conrad. Conrad looks out the window with half-lidded eyes, the same excessiveness of upstate establishments a commonality in his life.

Soon, their food arrives － Earl Grey tea and lemon biscuits for Conrad, hot chocolate and a roast beef sandwich for Connor － and the awkward, exploratory silence lapses into quiet discussion. “I wasn’t sure what you wanted, and you didn’t look to be in the best state to be choosing. We can get it wrapped up if you want to get anything lighter right now,” Conrad almost feels embarrassed, tripping over himself and his words for this boy. But only almost.

Connor shakes his head, the plaintive smile turning to a small genuine one. “No, this is,” a bite, a pleased noise. “This is really good. I didn’t have much of a breakfast before I went out, thank you.”

A sigh of relief, before picking up his own cup to drink. “The pleasure is all mine.” Privately, Conrad wishes he could commit the sound to memory, the pleased one in Connor’s throat in enjoyment of Conrad’s choice for him. Instead, he savors the moment behind closed lids, pretending it was a reaction to inhaling the scent of tea permeating his nostrils.

When most of the food is finished, they return to their books. Connor opens up a new book filled with references to rendering humans and humanoid creatures, Conrad returns to the same physics book he was warming with his palms earlier. It returns to the long stretch comfortable silence in the library, except Connor can’t shake the feeling that he’s being watched. But every time he looks up, there’s no one really looking at him, not really.

In a huff, Connor opens his sketchbook － adamant that the other boy would not be able to see it － and instead continues what he was working on a few days ago. He tells himself that it’s for practice and that he should really finish a piece sometime, and not simply just an excuse for him to steal glances at the boy sitting across from him. Nope, not at all.

 

All too soon, Connor has to leave when he’s reminded via sternly-worded text from his dad. _The real world calls again_ , he casts a pained look to Conrad, hoping he’d understand. “I’m gonna need to start heading home.”

“Do you need a ride?” The thought occurs to him that yes, Conrad would be able to afford to get him home, but Connor declines. _Just this once_ , he hopes.

Connor shakes his head, “No, no. I really shouldn’t take advantage of your… hospitality like that. I’ll call my dad and he’ll pick me up from here,” he says this all as he’s packing up his things, sketchbook first, everything else secondary. “I’ll be right back.”

A phone call is made, an explanation to an incredulous father why he’s _there_ , of all places, and Connor makes a return. He breathes a sigh of relief when he sees that his bag is untouched, though something tells him he shouldn’t have doubted in the first place. “My dad’s gonna be here in about 15 minutes or so, I might just wait outside until he gets here－ thank you, for everything, by the way,” he lowers his gaze, lost in the recollection of the day he’s had. “I appreciate it, and I’m sorry if this was an inconvenience in any way.”

“Connor,” he looks up, Conrad’s lips are pursed and his eyes unreadable. “Like I’ve said before, the pleasure’s all mine. I wouldn’t have taken you here if I needed to be somewhere else, it’s really no trouble at all,” they look at each other for a moment, Connor starting to flush under the intense gaze. “I’ll wait outside with you,” Conrad raises a hand when he sees Connor open his mouth to protest. “Connor, I’m my own person, not a martyr. I can make my own decisions.”

That shuts him up. Something in the declaration had stung, somehow, but Connor doesn’t dwell on it.

They end up outside under Connor’s blue umbrella, rain starting to drizzle. _10 minutes_ , his watch reads. Neither of them are quite sure how they managed to survive those 10 minutes, in hindsight. Blood rushing, hearts in hiccups, mildly aware (or perhaps all too aware) that their hands were nearly touching the entire time.

Close enough to touch, but not taking the leap.


	4. oh, can you hear me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor sorts out a communication issue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Celtic Woman's "County Down".

The next few weeks, Conrad is nowhere to be found. Or during things like classes, he sits way in the back and keeps to himself. Almost like he’s fleeing from something. _From me?_ The thought weighs like lead at the pit of Connor’s stomach, and hopes it isn’t the case.

Conrad is like a wisp, a ghost roaming the same school that he is, so avoidant that Connor nearly thinks that their last few encounters were a fluke. He closed his eyes, sighed as he leaned on a locker door. _Is there something wrong with me?_ A pang of pain settles on his chest, quickly shoved away metaphorically and－ also physically, suddenly. There’s a push, something being placed in his hands, forcing Connor to open his eyes. The delivery person already turning to a different hallway. He looks down, tilts his head.

A package. An unassuming box-shaped package wrapped in brown paper. There’s no visible note, no trace of who or where it could possibly have come from. He turns it around to find the seam, and starts tearing from there. Careful, starting from points pinned down with tape. Deft fingers chip away until the adhesion comes free and he’s left with a mostly whole piece of brown paper and a white box.

The box contained a set of oil paints, ones that Connor would recognise from their quality… and price tag. His eyes widen, turning over one of the sealed tubes, counting how many there were and left with the approximate amount that was on par (if not more) than their grocery expenses. He sucked in a breath, with a very big hunch on who could have given this but… it doesn’t add up. _Why won’t he just talk to me?_

He closes the box, shoves it into bag none too kindly, and carries on.

When he gets home, he takes them out of the box one by one to catalogue. When he hits the bottom, his fingers brush on something like film. A pressed white flower with silky petals[1]. The box ends up on his dresser at the end of the day, the flower pinned by its protective film on the cardboard cover.

 

When he asks around the next day, the first person he approaches is Kara. The other teen knew the talk of the town, one ear on the vine with a disarmingly sweet smile. “Kara.”

“Connor!” She looks up from whoever she’s talking to, another student interested in the Animal Welfare Club, no doubt. Connor grimaces, but this is important. “Hi, did you need something?”

“Do you know where Conrad’s been lately?”

Kara raises her eyebrows, not exactly sure why she had been the first person to be approached for such a question. She furrows her brows in thought, still giving it an earnest try as she digs through recent memories.

“Hm,” she bites her bottom lip. “I don’t really remember if I’ve seen him lately. If anything, I would have thought you’d have a better idea where he is.”

Connor half-frowns. _I thought I would have, too._

 

Another package comes along during lunch time. Normally, Connor would be sitting with his friends, but he instead chooses to sit alone in an empty classroom. A quiet place to read some new books he’s checked out from the public library, a quiet place to think. He hasn’t stopped thinking about Conrad, wherever he could be hiding.

“So this is where you are,” a voice Connor doesn’t recognize breaks through his reverie. He looks up and tilts his head, not familiar with who’s talking to him.

“Yes?”

A box slides towards him, he catches it before it hits his chest. Once again wrapped in brown paper, its contents sound jostled around from the action. “I’d suggest opening that soon, it won’t last long.”

“Can you tell me where they’re from?” he presses on the paper, already familiar with how to extricate the box from its confines, but he’s patient.

They smile, shrugging with their hands in their pockets. “I was under the impression you already knew.”

 

They’re a box of chocolate-dipped strawberries, an array of different chocolates and topped with various accoutrement. Connor’s first choice is the milk chocolate ones, picking off the nuts before hearing a satisfying crunch and snap of half-fist sized berries. He only almost moans at the mix of flavors in his mouth, _almost_.

This time, there’s a flower painted onto the enclosing box, a vibrant red with petals that look thin and delicate[2], ruffled on top of each other.

He leaves one of each kind in the fridge for his dad to snack on, hoping that the sudden presence of sweets keeps his dad from being suspicious as to where they actually come from. Connor loves his dad, he really does, but he really doesn’t need any more pressure from anywhere on top of this so-called _mysterious_ secret admirer. He rolls his eyes at the designation, when it was anything but.

 

The next person he approaches is Simon, observant and often behind the scenes. Surely he must know something about Conrad’s whereabouts, Connor hopes.

Simon’s hanging out by the bleachers reading something on his phone when Connor approaches him. Josh, North, and Markus are jogging on the field, and he can only assume Simon was here for them. He doesn’t ask about that, now’s not the time.

“Hi Simon,” he says instead, pulling his jacket close, instinctive despite the lack of cold wind.

“Connor,” the blond nods towards his direction. “Looking for Conrad, I’m assuming?”

A sheepish grin while scratching the back of his head. “Yeah… yeah. He disappears after class and then I can’t find him anywhere, it’s frustrating,” there’s an unreadable emotion in Simon’s eyes, fleeting enough that Connor can only sweep it away.

“I just want to talk to him, is all. The presents are cool but…” he throws his arms up in exasperation.

Simon locks his phone, nodding to himself. “I think there’s something going on with Conrad, something that might call for such solitude. This isn’t the first time he’s isolated himself, but he isn’t going to be avoiding you forever. That, I’m sure of.” Conrad somehow breathes a sigh of relief at that, not entirely certain why.

Connor nods, exhaling a misty breath. “Okay,” a shout from the field that he pays no mind. “At least there’s that. Thanks, Simon,” he turns his heel, starting to walk away.

“Oh, and Connor?”

Connor turns his head back, tilting his head and raising his brows. “I think you’d have the best luck talking to Chloe. She probably knows the most about Conrad, honestly.”

Connor swallows at that, remembering the blonde. She seems intimidating and imposing, from the few times he’s seen her. _No wonder they get along_. “Alright.”

 

Turns out, he doesn’t even need to look that far.

Chloe approaches Connor in the library during his study period, shoes _click-clack-clicking_ on the wooden floors. He doesn’t actually register the sound, all too engrossed in finishing his homework to free up his evening for painting. There’s someone sitting in front of him, waves it away thinking it’s someone who just wants to sit at the table. He continues writing.

“So,” she breaks the silence. “Hi, Connor.”

He looks up at her, startling. She’s sitting in front of him with a tight smile and sharp eyes, prim and proper without a hair out of place. There’s a small black box, too, and she’s resting her hands on it. “Chloe, hi. Nice to meet you,” he panics for a split second before offering his hand to shake.

She does, and returns her hand back to the box. “I’m pretty sure you already know why I’m here, yes?” Nerves overtake him, finding the consistent need to clear the lump forming in his throat. He nods wordlessly.

“Conrad… is a whole mess,” she begins, and it isn’t really what Connor’s expecting her to say. “But I think you’ll be good to each other,” she releases her grip on the box, pushing it his way. He takes it gingerly, this box covered in velvet and not the usual brown paper.

“I just want to talk to him, is all,” he says, voice rough. “I don’t know where all of this is coming from,” he can’t stop staring at it, feeling the soft texture on his fingertips.

She opens her mouth as if to say something, but then closes it and shakes her head. “You’ll get the chance to, soon enough. You should ask him then,” her tight-lipped smile becomes a little softer, more genuine. She reaches out to pet his hand, a warm touch on his cold palms.

He doesn’t wait for her to leave when he opens the box, and he gasps.

A single [brooch](https://www.harrywinston.com/sites/default/files/styles/high_jewellery_detail_1120_x_630/public/Slide1-EA.png), colorless diamonds arranged to form the shape of a feather, carrying a teardrop-shaped yellow diamond. Beside it, a single yellow bloom of four petals[3]. His eyes widen, hands fidgeting, almost but not quite touching the gift.

 

One day, Connor gets a text. _Meet me at the rooftop. - CK_

He looks at the text and steels himself for the short trip up, up, up.

 

The rooftop is an expansive stretch of concrete and greenery. He’s mildly aware that some science clubs use the space for labs (the hydroponics garden, the observatory…), but he’s never been up there long enough to make sense of its labyrinthine layout. When Connor hits open air, he takes a deep inhale. But then he immediately retreats into his coat to prevent from shivering too badly. There’s his sketch there in his jacket pocket, careful not to crease it.

It only takes a little bit of searching, but Connor eventually finds the other boy. _Finally_. When he does, his heart stutters at the sight.

Conrad is sitting on one of the stone benches, the shrubs on the benches’ planters a divider between them and the rest of the world. His smile is small but Connor feels like he can take on anything, anything at all.

“Long time no see,” Connor says after what feels like a long time. Conrad ducks his head, and Connor notices what’s on his lap.

A bouquet, made up of the same flowers that had accompanied his gifts. Blooming reds, shy yellows, and silky whites, all wrapped and held by the best messenger Connor could imagine. “They’re carnations, forsythias, and gardenias,” Conrad clarifies, holding up the bouquet for Connor to take. “And… they’re yours.”

Connor has his hand in his jacket pocket, ready to offer the sketch as some sort of response to the other boy’s gift. But he doesn’t, _now’s not the time_. If Conrad noticed this internal struggle, he doesn’t show it at all.

So there Connor stands, with an armful of flowers and… finally being able to talk to Conrad again. “These are very nice,” he coos, touching the differences in texture between each kind. “So were the gifts you gave me. But I gotta ask,” he pauses before continuing. “Why not just talk to me?”

It’s quiet for a moment, and Connor takes that time to sit beside Conrad, plastic and tissue paper crinkling from the effort.

“Because… talking is hard for me,” Connor raises an eyebrow at that. “No- I mean, _genuine_ talking. Small talk is easy, talking like I’m actually saying things is easy, not…” he waves a hand towards the flowers. “Not anything like _this._

“I’m used to life coming easy, because that’s all that it really has been so far. So I went for easy, with money and material gifts in the hopes that maybe it wouldn’t be so hard.”

Connor looks down, struck by the confession. He still has his grip on the flowers, but his thoughts go far away before he can think of a reply. “It doesn’t have to be so hard,” he says.

“What do you mean?” Conrad looks at him, wary.

“I mean,” the corner of Connor’s lips start to upturn, huffing a little. “ _This_ doesn’t have to be something you go through alone. _I’m_ the one you’ve been giving gifts to, after all,” he’s full-blown smiling now, nudging the other boy. “Let’s start with something easy.”

Conrad nods, eyes bright and curious. “Alright.”

“The public park’s ice skating rink will be open for the season next week. I…” Connor looks away when he says this. “Really, really like ice skating,” he smiles a secret, sad smile to himself before turning back to Conrad. “After school, next week. Want to head down there and go skating?”

Conrad looks at the other boy, somewhat awestruck. He sees the light frame Connor’s wavy hair, accentuating the doe-eyed, soft smile he has on his face. “I think I’d like that.”

Connor laughs, happiness overflowing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   1. _Gardenias:_ "you're lovely", secret love. [return to text]
>   2. _Red Carnations:_ "my heart aches for you", admiration. [return to text]
>   3. _Forsythias:_ anticipation. [return to text]
> 



	5. (witness) the beauty of your repair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor glides on ice like a bird set free, Conrad can only stand and watch in awe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Vienna Teng's "[Never Look Away](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PIk19LCqiuM)". 
> 
> I realise now that these characters may still feel very cardboard-y. Hopefully they become more lifelike as I work back on everything, at the end. Nevertheless, I hope it's still an enjoyable read so far.

The entire day, Connor walks with a spring in his step. He walked to school with his satchel and skating bag on his shoulder. Granted, right now they’re hibernating in his locker but nevertheless, he’s going to be using them today. Every greeting comes with a bright smile, everyone who interacts with him comes away with the unshakable afterimage of a puppy dog.

When the last class ends, he almost jets out the door, practically leaving a dust outline in his wake. He ends up in front of his locker in record time, cold palm touching colder metal. There’s a giddy feeling in his stomach, as he takes out the bag. Honestly, he has half a mind to put them on then and there.

But there’s his fellow students bustling through the hallway, some bumping against him as they head towards their own plans for the weekend. So instead, he holds his bag close with a fixed smile on his face as he follows the crowd out of school doors.

 

When Conrad got home from his rooftop encounter with Connor (his _date!_ He has a _date!_ ), one of the first calls he makes is to the family’s go-to shoemaker, rapidfire Italian back and forths as he obtains contacts for any local ice skating shoemakers. Swift, efficient, the best that money can afford.

He gets his measurements sorted out promptly the next afternoon. He notices the huffs of indignation when the person they sent out gets his measurements, likely not looking forward to dealing with another spoilt brat who thinks money can get them the world. Except, _oh_ , he doesn’t care.

The shoes, black with white details and blue lining, arrives after 3 days. There’s a printed proof of authenticity and a manual on maintenance and usage, as well as blade guards and soakers, tucked neatly away in the pockets and compartments of the bag it comes with. Conrad’s tempted to break them in, but he figures it might be more enjoyable having Connor help him do so.

 

“I’m going out!” Conrad says this to an almost bare living room, large and empty save for his father: eccentric genius Elijah Kamski, reading something on a tablet and swirling a glass of wine. “Don’t wait up for me.” An open then a shut of the door.

Elijah hums, taking a sip. What he had been reading was his credit card statements, with a nigh-exorbitant charge for a pair of custom-made ice skating shoes delivered at the soonest time possible. _Exorbitant is relative_ , he thinks, recalling the way his son had sprinted down the stairs when Elijah said there was a package for him through the intercom.

Of course, there had been other expenses－a set of high-quality professional oil paints, a box of gourmet desserts, a Harry Winston original design－revealing that Conrad was up to something. Clearly gifts for someone who couldn’t afford to do give to themself, someone who had managed to break through his son’s icy exterior to be able to generate such a reaction from him.

Elijah smirks, swiping away the information to sift through the daily news. _This will be interesting._

 

Public works had already set up the skating rink a few days ago, the ice was solid. There were already a few families there, idly skating in circles. Not even the weather could deter Connor from leaping to his feet at the sight. “Let’s go!” he nearly jumps out of the car, skating bag slung on his shoulder.

In general, Conrad would be the more amused and slow-paced of the two, having had no experience with ice skating or public rinks in general. Except, Connor is holding his hand. _He’s touching me._ And that makes his heart race, matching up to Connor’s own excitement.

They can’t get on the ice fast enough, for Connor’s lack of patience. They get seated by one of the bleachers off to the side, Connor lacing up his shoes with precision through muscle memory.

Conrad knows how to tie his own shoes, but is severely lacking in the ‘specialized footwear’ department. He watches the other boy, wondering what it must take to lace them up correctly. Wondering where Connor had even gotten the experience in the first place, considering his sensitivity to cold weather.

Noticing Conrad’s conundrum, Connor shifts his bag and starts tying his own skates. “These are some nice shoes,” he remarks, threading the laces through the holes.

“Only the best,” Conrad replies coolly. Connor looks up at him with a mischievous smile.

“Sure it’s the best, but can you even use them in the first place?” he asks, teasing. It hits a slight nerve, but Conrad brushes it away with an easy smile. Connor starts tightening up the laces, a particularly strong knot making Conrad wince. He does it away with a “they need to be as tight as possible, so they don’t come loose when you’re on the ice.”

“I’d likely be able to use them, provided I have a good teacher in the first place,” that draws out an arched brow from the other boy.

“Is that a challenge, Kamski?”

“Maybe so.”

 

It takes a few tentative steps, but Conrad eventually gets used to the additional height from what are essentially thicker kitchen knives. They stand at the edge of the frozen lake, entrance area cushioned by snowfall. There’s walls put up for first-time skaters to hold onto like a lifeline, _good_.

“Stay right here,” Connor loosens his grip on the other boy, stepping into the ice as though it was still the snow-covered ground. “Let me just do a couple rounds to see if I can still do this.”

Conrad doesn’t really have a chance to protest, because Connor is speeding off to the ice like a bird let loose. All the grace of a swan with the speed of an eagle, Connor draws circles _one foot over the other_ for several laps. And then, transitioning fluidly, does his laps _backwards_. He has his arms outstretched up high, wind whipping through his hair as he goes, positively beaming.

Connor is in his element, and it takes a lot for Conrad not to stare at him in awe. Most especially when he flourishes with a bow in front of the entrance, the stop as abrupt as how it began. The only trace of Connor even doing the entire routine is the way his chest heaves, taking in air as his racing heart calms down.

“Alright,” Conrad crosses his arms with a smirk. “I think you’re qualified to teach me.”

 

“You’ve never been ice skating?”

“Never had the reason to before.”

 

The entire time, Connor has his hands somewhere on Conrad (on his shoulders, holding his hands) to keep him stable. He teaches him how to move on the ice－

> _“Start with baby steps,” Connor starts from a standing position, feet turned out to a v-shape. Then he makes little skittering steps across the ice. Makes it seem easy._
> 
> _Have you seen a baby penguin waddle? It’s like that. Keep your feet in a v-formation and just take little steps.”_
> 
> _“...You need to let go of the bars eventually, Conrad.”_

－how not to fall on his butt－

> _“I know you can see other skaters leaning forward or backwards when they skate, but that’s for when you’re going really fast,” he demonstrates by starting to go around backwards in a clockwise circle, retaining momentum by crossing his legs and swapping his weight between them every half-circle. His arms, as specified, are outstretched － presumably to keep balance._
> 
> _Conrad kind of wishes he had taken up lessons earlier, now. If only to impress Connor. “You’re starting slow, leaning far too much on any direction is a one way ticket to falling down.”_

－and it goes along pretty well, surprisingly.

Or, well enough until Conrad’s going a bit faster than he had intended, a little too keen on impressing Connor with a sudden burst of improvement. He manages to make several strokes on the ice before he’s going faster than comfortable, that his toe pick catches on a chip of ice and he starts tumbling forward. _Down, down, down..._ Just as Conrad is about to fall, a strong arm catches him by the waist. The breath is knocked out of him.

He’s reorients quickly, trying to keep a straight face and blaming the sudden redness on his face on the burst of wind he caused from going just a tiny bit too fast. Conrad tries not to recall the sudden experience of falling, because he feels like he is. Free-falling with his heart in his throat, and there’s no parachute to save him.

He looks up to soft caring brown eyes. “Connor.”

“Fancy meeting you here,” the other boy says, and a strong sense of _déjà vu_ passes, but he moves to readjust and Conrad is standing steady again. Physically and metaphorically, in this case.

 

After a little while, more people start to trickle in, in time with the weekend. It gets much harder to skate side-by-side ( _holding hands_ , they think to themselves), so they have to move off the ice eventually. Conrad hastily removes the shoes, glad to be able to stand _with proper foundation_ once again. Connor chooses to keep his on, putting the rubber guards on his blades to keep them from slipping.

“Hey, I’m taller than you, for once,” Connor teases, tempted to ruffle the perfectly styled jet black waves that are now even easier to reach for. “I’m sure it’ll only be a rare occurrence,” Conrad notes dryly, but there’s a small smile toying at the corners of his lips.

They get hot chocolate from the stall nearby to warm their palms, sitting at the bleachers beside the rink to watch people skate until the street lights come on. For what seems like hours, they sit there and talk about all trivial things they couldn’t in any other setting (always about schoolwork, or small talk in the hallways, or some new piece from the rumor mill).

It’s nice, it’s normal, it’s comforting.

It feels infinitesimally warm in the pocket of this moment, just the two of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a soft spot for this chapter. Connor's experience is near identical to mine when it comes to ice skating, so I was particularly excited for this one.


	6. the light through my window (from afar)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a reason why Connor shouldn't go out in the cold so much. Conrad visits, and meets the parent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Pentatonix's "[Take Me Home](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NLRUlbyH_D0)".

As it turns out, there is a very good reason for Connor being so bundled up so often － he’s come down with a cold and won’t be able to go to school for a few days. Conrad grimaces at the news, but files away the information should Connor bounce towards activities with frigid environments again.

“Naturally,” Chloe comments at Conrad’s bouquet － a mix of zinnias[1], azaleas[2], dotted with blue violets[3] amidst the shock of red, with notes and little trinkets inserted in the little gaps. He shoots her an exasperated look, she only shrugs with a knowing smile.

He rolls his eyes, “Could you at least hold this until the car gets here?” She giggles with a swish of her ponytail, acquiescing.

 

Past an hour or two after midday, Hank opens the door to a severe looking teen holding an enthusiastic bouquet, a colorful sight in the middle of winter, and a brown bag off to the side. He stares at the young man, Conrad steels himself from the self-consciousness that threatens to creep into his chest. _This is Connor’s father!_ “Huh. So are you the boy Connor keeps talking about?”

Conrad tilts his head, cheeks warming. “I… would suppose so. Is there any problem with that?”

Hank scrutinizes him for a touch longer than necessary then sighs, stepping aside to let him in. Conrad releases a breath that he didn’t realize he was holding, but some of the tense knots in his chest still persisted. And then a dog tackled him.

Well, tackle is a strong word, but there was very little tell of a furry companion in the house other than a loud “boof!” and a sudden bump to the legs that nearly made him lose balance. Or perhaps Conrad just didn’t notice, too engrossed in taking in the quaint bungalow and how _unlike_ his own house it is.

The walls are decorated with framed posters, of various bands, art prints, and even some musicals. There’s very little space on surfaces because of how many trinket and photos adorn it (some with a lady with warm brown eyes and dark hair, some with a another brown haired boy and a St. Bernard puppy not too far from him). It feels… lived in. Homey. “Feel free to put your stuff down. Connor’s resting right now, but I’ll let him know his boy’s here.”

Conrad flushes. “I- that’s not- wh-!” Hank has to raise a hand to stop him. “Can it, son,” Conrad bristles at the referral, _You’re not my father_. “You two aren’t that subtle. No funny business,” he pointedly looks at Conrad’s hands, message clear. _Don’t touch my son._

The St. Bernard had situated itself on the living room carpet, between the coffee table and sofa. Conrad isn’t too experienced with dogs in general, and is thankful that the dog doesn’t think him any threat. (“You seem to inspire a lot of hostility in people.” “It’s part of the Kamski charm.”)

There’s a quiet moment of Hank walking to the room at the end of the hallways, soft murmurs that sound like “ _Con, you have a visitor_ ” when Conrad strains to hear. More sounds of feet padding carpeted floor, Hank nods, and so Conrad goes to follow.

 

“You’re here!” Connor’s voice is rough, Conrad could feel phantom pinpricks along his throat hearing it. Somewhere underneath the blankets and pale skin and feverish temperatures is the sunshine that Conrad has come to know more, and will know even more － hopefully.

Conrad sets the bouquet and the bag on Connor’s desk gingerly, bed dipping when he sits by the end of other’s bed. Then he blinks, acting as though he had snapped out of a trance. “Well, I suppose I am. Not sure how I got here, but I am now,” he puts up the perfect face for feigned memory loss, mask breaking when a corner of his mouth upturns to a smile.

“Knock it off,” Connor rolls his eyes, nudging Conrad with his blanketed foot.

“My apologies,” Conrad responds. “I shouldn’t be so cruel to the invalid,” Connor is aware that it would be easy to turn that statement into a mean one by a slight shift in tone, but more so glad that Conrad’s even here to make such remarks in the first place.

“Hey, this invalid can make his dad kick you out of the house,” he nudges again. “So don’t you try anything.”

Conrad huffs, amused. “Your dad said something along the lines of that statement, but I don’t think the sentiments are the same, in this case.”

Eyes wide, a bright blush takes over Connor’s cheeks. “N- that’s not what I meant! Did dad actually tell you that? Oh gosh…” Conrad lets him fluster for a little while longer, heart feeling like bursting at hearing Connor’s voice ramble on. Even weak and punctured by coughs in between, the sound puts a smile on Conrad’s face.

“Connor,” the other boy’s mouth closes suddenly. “Don’t worry. Your dad is just looking out for you,” he purses his lips, next statement bringing his own father in mind. “I would only expect that he would.”

“Sorry if I worried you, and everyone else,” Connor says quietly, eyes flickering to the flowers. There’s tags and cards and even a little teddy bear. “Just not used to the cold weather, is all.”

Conrad shrugs. “I’ll just have to bring an extra coat the next time we skate,” Connor doesn’t miss the _next time_ , a bright feeling settling on his chest. Because Conrad knows that Connor will want to go ice skating again, he wants to see that sparkle in the other boy’s eyes when he glides like he’s flying.

Conrad takes Connor’s hand into his－ _slotting perfectly like equals, like it was meant to be_ －and rubs circles on the back of Connor’s hand with his thumb. “Next time, huh?” Conrad only huffs in response, but internally confirming Connor’s question.

 

“So! I see you brought stuff for me…” Connor’s excitement is infectious, a big smile on his face as Conrad leans over to get the bag. Carefully, the contents get placed on the duvet, neatly in a precise grid.

“Here’s some notes that didn’t fit in the bouquet,” the pile is smaller than it was originally, with Conrad sifting through and crumpling up subtle notes of schoolmates trying to ask Connor to the Winter Dance. He rolls his eyes, dumping those unceremoniously in the car’s waste bin before he arrived at the Anderson house. _The nerve_. “Homework－” Conrad stifles a chuckle at Connor’s groan. “－and,” his hand freezes for a moment before taking the box out.

“Something I thought you might like,” a watercolor sketchbook, with a pan of dry color blocks and brush pens. “Since you were likely going to be in bed all day, this might help take your mind off of things, to help with recovery.”

Connor stills for a moment, tears welling, collecting at the waterline. _Oh god, Mr. Anderson is going to_ － “Thank you. This means… a lot to me,” at Connor’s outstretched arms he places the gifts, and the other boy holds them close to his chest, sniffling. Conrad has to look away to gain some composure, taking a breath and nodding to himself before returning.

They go through the well-wishes and the trinkets plucked from the bouquet (a lot of “get well soon”s notes and a notable “don’t die on us!” from North; an [adorable puppy card](http://i.123g.us/c/pet_getwell/card/326242.gif) from Kara and Luther; some [health potion keychains](https://img1.etsystatic.com/028/1/7726087/il_570xN.643720087_mfsd.jpg) from Markus; it strikes Conrad how many more people are affected by Connor’s absence). Conrad, with Connor’s guidance, attaches the keychains to his lanyard, the cards and miscellaneous trinkets on [his desk](https://media.discordapp.net/attachments/481632324765745163/542922280737701889/unknown.png)’s top shelf.

 

At some point it devolves to bickering when Conrad notices the state of Connor’s desk in general. Or, the thing that is underneath the mess of books and papers that _might_ be a desk. “I’ve been busy being sick! Are you even _aware_ how much schoolwork they make us do?” Connor says, his defense peppered by weak coughs.

Conrad is vaguely aware of the workload, yes. But he’s used to what their prep school gives, leaving him with only a vague assumption of the steep learning curve as a result of being dropped into it out of the blue. “Good thing I’m here to assist,” he says instead, starting to pile worksheets and notebooks.

They work in silence, but Conrad feels brown eyes boring holes into his back as he does. It doesn’t take him very long to realize why.

Underneath the papers, Conrad uncovers a sketchbook, cover folded over and opened to a specific page. His breath catches in awe, a pencil rendition of his own profile in pencil with blue and white highlights against recycled paper. Connor knows what he’s found and stays silent, heart loud and protesting under feverish skin.

“You drew this?”

“It’s what I was drawing, when we were at that coffee shop downtown. I wanted to give it to you eventually but… it felt out of place in the moment.”

Conrad remembers－

> _Connor has his hand in his jacket pocket, ready to offer the sketch as some sort of response to the other boy’s gift. But he doesn’t,_ now’s not the time _. If Conrad noticed this internal struggle, he doesn’t show it at all._

－Connor walking up the stairs to the rooftop in a rush with a page in his hand. The look of hesitation, before taking the bouquet he had offered Connor then. It makes sense now. “Is this… ?”

“Yeah.”

 

The moment is effectively ruined when Connor’s dad enters the room, door swinging open to reveal him struggling to carry a tray with medication and Connor’s meal.

Sensing he barged in on something important, Hank helplessly goes “I got soup.”

 

After taking the meal and medication, Connor’s gone back to sleep. This leaves Conrad in the kitchen － _meeting the parent_ , and he tries not to panic at the implications. The dark circles under Mr. Anderson’s eyes betray the outright concern he has for his son, and acquiesces to accompany the man when he has his first meal after 36 hours.

The meal is home-cooked, a simple stir fry with protein and vegetables over rice. It’s unlike all the meals Conrad’s had at home that were prepared by professional chefs all over the globe, the difference is the same between his house and the Anderson’s. They share it as Mr. Anderson talks about his family.

Conrad’s been in more nerve-wracking situations － being a Kamski meant at least a few kidnappings a few times in his life － but nothing prevents him from feeling the fear of not living up to Mr. Anderson’s expectations.

Mr. Anderson talks about his wife, the reason why Connor’s such a creative kid and loves to ice skate. He doesn’t talk about where she is or if she’s even alive anymore, deliberately talking about her in the past tense. There’s also Connor’s older brother Cole who’s off to university overseas. How he and Cole bond over sports and how, _before_ , Cole was Connor’s favorite human in the entire world.

_For now_ , Conrad thinks.

Hank notices the glint in his eye, shakes his head. _Teenagers_.

 

Then Hank asks Conrad to tell him about himself. Conrad stiffens and scrambles for a semblance of personality amidst what is really just a pile of interests and etiquette lessons. Hank notices him panic, fidgeting and looking at everywhere but him, and has him _calm down son, start with something simple. What’s your name, what do you like?_

Conrad clenches his fist, the urge to snap _“Don’t call me son!”_ constricting his throat. But instead he recalls how to breathe. Centers himself, focuses. _There’s your objective, now go._

“I’m Conrad Kamski, 17, my father Elijah Kamski is the CEO of CyberLife. I’m expected to take over the role when the time comes, and have been trained to do so for most of my life.” Hank’s eyebrow quirks up subtly, _tall order for such a young kid_.

“My favorite color is dark blue,” a flash of Connor’s scarf flying in the wind. “I like astronomy, biology,” the well-read physics book from the public library. “And...” he hesitates but takes the plunge. “Connor, your son.”

_And there it is._ Hank’s surprised by the forwardness but not the confession itself. It’s hard not to see something growing between the two of them, even if he’d only met the teen just now. “I see,” he takes a sip of water, though wishing he had something a bit stronger. But now’s not the time.

There’s what feels like a long stretch of silence, and Conrad has to will himself not to immediately think the worst.

“Well, from what I know about you Kamskis, you don’t really back down when you have your sights set on a goal,” Conrad looks up, not realizing he had cast down his eyes to his fidgeting. “But the moment you break my son’s heart…” the teen swallows the nervous lump in his throat and nods.

“I understand, Mr. Anderson.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   1. _Zinnias:_ "thinking of an absent friend". [return to text]
>   2. _Azaleas:_ "take care of yourself for me", temperance. [return to text]
>   3. _Blue Violets:_ watchfulness, faithfulness. [return to text]
> 



	7. happiness comes as a total surprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh, but there’s only _one bed_ here!” Melodramatic tone turned up to an 11, throwing himself on Conrad’s bed and an arm covering his eyes. “What _ever_ shall we do?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from Daddy Long Legs' "The Secret of Happiness - Reprise", the one with Paul Alexander Nolan.
> 
> We're approaching the end of the fic, folks. I hope this ride has been enjoyable to read as it was for me to write.

They’re assigned to do a small research project (“I know you’re all looking forward to the Winter Dance and soon thereafter winter break, so I’ll make this quick”), as some sort of misguided attempt at an academic last hoorah before the holidays.

There’s a extra skip in Connor’s step as they’re walking out of class. Color restored to the pallid cheeks from last week. Connor is talking a mile a minute about something or other and Conrad just hears and suddenly interrupts with－

“Would be against working on the research project at our residence? We have an… admittedly vast range of books on a lot of topics, we could get something done there,” to Conrad, it seemed only fair as he got to see Connor’s house, to invite Connor to his own.

“Are you sure it’ll be okay?” and there comes the hesitation again. “I wouldn’t want to intrude on anything,” he’s toying with the thread of his scarf, biting his lip. Conrad has the most inexplicable urge to do _something_ , but he isn’t sure what. As with most things, he chooses to ignore it.

“Connor,” Conrad brushes his fingertips on the other boy’s hand. “I’m the one who offered. All you have to say is yes,” a beat, as though the latter option shouldn’t even _be_. “Or no.”

So they go.

 

To Connor, the Kamski household is like a yawning chasm, all high walls and opulence. It was kind of like the castles of royalty or caves, hiding dragon hoards within it.

“Feel free to leave your coat and stuff at the door,” already melting his severe persona, Conrad shrugs off his coat and gloves onto the floor. Connor, ever helpful, moves to hang those up. He puts his coat beside Conrad’s but leaves his scarf on.

As they walk through the hallways and elaborate doors, Connor can’t help but gaze in wonder. “Your place looks like a castle,” he reddens at the thought of Conrad being in his own shabby home, especially when he was nursing a fever and wasn’t entirely himself. “How do you not get lost here?”

“Even a labyrinth becomes familiar if one stays for long enough,” Connor doesn’t get a chance to ask what he means because then imposing doors open to reveal a study of hardwood flooring, bookcases from floor to ceiling, wall-to-wall. There’s a mezzanine, and the floorspace not occupied by books is populated with seating and carpeting, desks and computers pushed up against the wall.

“Wow…”

“Well, here’s one of the empty rooms I said I wouldn’t be wasting away in for the rest of my days,” is Conrad’s plaintive remark about the whole affair, lips curling. He moves to one of the desks with computers, presumably to look up what they had in their collection. “You can leave your bag on one of the couches. We might be here for a good while.”

“You don’t really like living here, huh?” Connor wasn’t particularly done ogling at everything, but the clear distaste in the other boy’s voice was too strong to ignore much longer. Connor moves to sit on one of the couches.

“What makes you say that?”

“Well,” he tilts his head a little, privately reviewing his thoughts. “The way you talk about it makes it sound like some kind of prison, a labyrinth. I don’t think we saw a single person on the way here, except for the guard that opened the gates. Even then, it was through an intercom,” he twiddles his thumbs. “Big house, empty home.”

The cross-examination felt intrusive, leaving Conrad silent. If it were any other person, he’d have told them to mind their business, punctuated with a backhanded remark for good measure. But this was Connor, and what he said was true, as much as he didn’t want it to be.

“I’m sorry, if that was a bit intrusive or presumptuous. I don’t mean for it to be. You just seem… miserable,” Connor nods to himself. “I don’t like it.”

Unable to form much coherent thought in the onslaught of a scrutinizing eye, Conrad retreats to what he’s always known. “I’m sorry you feel that way. Do you think we should move on to a lighter topic?” He refuses to look at Connor, clicking at links and typing nonsense queries into their local database.

“I mean it. I don’t like seeing you miserable,” Connor proverbially marches onward, knowing a deflection when he hears one. “Whenever you want, we can go to my house instead. If it makes you feel more comfortable.” He knows Conrad’s experience with emotions leaves much to be desired, but he hopes his intention runs clear.

All that Connor says makes sense to him, and Conrad is confronted with a terrifying realization: _who am I, underneath all this?_ His mouth goes dry. “Maybe eventually.”

That’s all Connor could ask for, really. “So! Research paper?”

 

They return to a more even playing field, the familiar back and forth on what their paper topic could be. Couldn’t be anything too abstract or Conrad wouldn’t be able to follow, couldn’t be anything too technical or all the terms would fly over Connor’s head.

“Not that _that_ would be any difficult to do,” Conrad slyly remarks, the only reaction a punch on the forearm.

Eventually they settle on a happy medium, as far as main topics could be: on the properties of light and how it turns white light into color. (“Well, it’s more that white light is a combination of all colored light－”) But after a cursory glance at resulting sources, Connor realized that most of this was still in the realm of physics, only very little being anything related to art, deflating.

“How about－” Conrad starts typing, _color as light wavelengths and how they are perceived by the colorblind_. Connor blinks, almost as slowly as the pointer on the screen. “Okay, I think that’ll work.”

 

“Are you colorblind?” Connor asks him a little afterward, after he’s fished out some books from the shelves, spread out on one of the coffee tables. “I wouldn’t have thought of that for the second part of the paper.”

“It was more of a curiosity at the time,” Conrad replies. He doesn’t admit to memories of restless nights where he found himself looking through biology books, wondering if his irregularities were a result of faulty genetics, or some chance mutation, or something else entirely.

 

They work in productive silence, punctured by the sounds of typing, scribbling, the turning of pages. Realistically, they should be working on this closer to the deadline like normal students, but Connor’s still struggling to adjust to the workload and Conrad － well, Connor’s presence makes the entire affair more enjoyable. Could make even the worst of them at least somewhat bearable.

But then the doors swing open again. Connor tenses, Conrad only looking up when he hears the tell-tale _click-clack_ on hardwood. “Father.”

Connor has heard of Elijah Kamski, in the news for his company’s technological leaps and bounds towards artificial intelligence and cybernetic enhancements. One of the staff in the precinct has prosthetics from them, a result of a stakeout gone bad. And now the man at the helm of it all, regarding Connor with a to-go coffee cup rather than the standard wine glass.

Connor isn’t sure how to human right now.

“I thought you were still stuck doing board meetings for today?” Conrad asks, not shifting from his position, book perched on his left leg as his left foot rests on his right knee.

“Technically, I still am,” Elijah says with a knowing smile, which translated perfectly to ‘ _Cassandra is doing it in my place_ ’ in Conrad’s head. Connor, bewildered, vaguely wonders if Conrad’s father made an AI stand in for himself. “But I had to come home, knowing we had a special guest,” Elijah’s gaze flicks back to Connor, who stands ramrod straight.

“Elijah Kamski,” he proffers his hand to shake, which Connor mechanically walks towards. “But please, call me Elijah,” the man’s smile is almost sharklike, with the illusion of too many teeth, permeated by an aura of status and power. This isn’t Connor’s first brush with the uber rich and powerful, fights through the intimidation with the thought that Elijah himself doesn’t know how to smile. _Maybe_.

“Connor Anderson,” he fights to keep his voice even. “I met Conrad at school. We’re classmates.”

“Excellent,” Elijah moves to one of the couches, beckoning Connor to come with him. Conrad, for the most part, vacates the couch Elijah wants to occupy, moving to one of the computers in a half-hearted attempt to not look like he was eavesdropping.

Connor was acutely aware that this was a lot like a “meeting the parent” kind of situation, made all the more nerve-wracking by who the parent is, not to mention Conrad still being in the same room. He wishes the ground would just give out from under and swallow him whole.

For the most part, to Conrad’s surprise, Elijah acts relaxed and informal, but still retaining the somewhat eccentric viewpoint that he’s grown to adapt to over the years. _Being on top of the world does that to people_ , he supposes. _Not enough oxygen_. They do small talk, on what Connor does, likes, who he knows. Certainly not a grilling session or shovel talk.

By the end of it, Connor is rambling on about one of his favorite art collections (Yayoi Kusama’s Infinity Mirrored Room “[Aftermath of Obliteration of Eternity](https://hirshhorn.si.edu/kusama/infinity-rooms/#aftermath)”), but Elijah has heard enough. He raises a hand that silences Connor almost immediately－something about the action makes Conrad bristle－and takes a beat to compose his next thoughts.

A curt nod, and Elijah goes, “Alright, I like you,” Connor relaxes marginally at that. “But! if you ever hurt my son, I assure you it will be the last mistake you make,” makes Conrad sputter ( _Where did_ that _come from?_ ) and Connor trembling with _Am I gonna die?_ lingering in his thoughts. Satisfied with his interrogation, Elijah turns to leave.

“Oh and, Conrad. Bottom drawer of your bedside table. Go wild, but don’t be stupid,” his father tosses out before the doors close.

Connor doesn’t connect the dots but Conrad knows immediately what was implied and groans. “ _Thank_ you, father!” and the doors close and some unspoken tension drains out of the both of them. “ _That was totally necessary for you to say_ ,” Conrad mutters quietly to himself, hand on his face.

“What was your dad talking about…?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he snaps his book shut, not wanting to stay in the study any longer. “Want to continue the paper in my room?”

 

Conrad’s bedroom is equally spacious as the rest of the house, at least three times bigger than Connor’s own. They offload the papers to Conrad’s desk, but the books end up on the bed (“I prefer working on a bed.” “Based on your own desk, I’m not surprised.”), and Conrad can’t stop himself from thinking _I’d prefer you stay in my bed for a long while_. The only thing that betrays that thought is a sudden pause in typing, a blink, and the shake of his head.

From behind him, Connor receives a text, buzz bringing him out of his thoughts. “Hey,” he calls out. Conrad hums, _I’m listening_. “Dad said an important lead came up. He might not be able to come home tonight. Could I stay here for the night?”

Conrad turns to look at him, secretly pleased at the universe putting all the pieces neatly into his court. But he pauses, he doesn’t want to seem overly excited at the prospect - even if he really is. “Yes, of course. Will you be needing spare clothes?” He stands, going over to his walk-in. “As you may have noticed, we have a lot of empty bedrooms here for guests.” Somehow, the thought of that aspect mildly disappoints him.

Then Connor does something completely silly out of the blue. “Oh, but there’s only _one bed_ here!” Melodramatic tone turned up to an 11, throwing himself on Conrad’s bed and an arm covering his eyes. “What _ever_ shall we _do_?”

He rises, looking straight at Conrad’s back. “We’re gonna have to share.” _Ah, something he might have gleaned from all those romance novels?_

Despite the ridiculous response, Conrad doesn’t find the urge to roll his eyes any compelling as opposed to being amused by it. _This is the best turn of events, actually_. “If you wanted to stay here, you could’ve just said so, you know.”

“I know,” Connor says, cheeky smile on his face. What Conrad would do to be able to walk forward and kiss him right then. _Wait, what…_

Instead, Conrad chooses to go through his own clothing, finding a set of clothes that would be comfortable to sleep in. Not too difficult, though he realizes now how much more formal clothing he has in contrast to ones for at-home use. He frowns, like he’s woken up from some kind of programming, _was I really not in control of my own situation this entire time?_

When he returns from the depths of his closet, he’s struck once more with yet another realization: Connor will be wearing _his_ clothes, sleeping on _his_ bed…

“Here’s a change of clothes,” Conrad says, voice wavering as he sets down the folded clothes on his bed. “You can get changed in my closet, or the bathroom down the hall.”

“I think I’ll just change in your closet. Don’t want to get lost,” Connor says, swapping positions with the other boy. Somehow, Conrad thinks that Connor would have better navigational skills than that.

In that space of time, he looked over the note cards and citations Connor had made on his notebook. Satisfied with the lookover, he started closing up all the books, moving them to the table. _Homework, begone,_ none too dramatically.

“I guess we’re done with homework now?” Connor says when he sees the emptied bed, Conrad standing close by one of his bookshelves to unearth a video game console that look barely touched.

“We’ve done a lot more work than some students might do when they start this at the last moment. I think we deserve a reprieve,” Conrad moves to the entertainment center to plug in the console, fans whirring to life as it shook out the dust from within it. “Are you a fan of any video games?” he turns around as the appliances boot up, blush evident when he sees the other boy in his clothing. The pants are just a tad too long, hitting the floor, and the sleeves coming down to the base of his palms.

“Never had a video game console. Couldn’t afford it. My brother let me play some of his FPSes on his computer when he used to live with us, though,” Connor flops onto the bed, more tired than he thought. He rolls around so his voice comes across clear. “I think I only liked maybe two shooters, all the other games I liked are more calming and fun for me.”

“And what might those games be?” Conrad realizes his video game collection isn’t any impressive. Hopefully all those game passes will come in handy this time, as he sifts through the catalogue.

“Well, the two shooters were Overwatch and Splatoon 2,” he raises a hand to the ceiling, keeping a count of the games he likes. “And I think Minecraft, Stardew Valley, and the Pokemon games are really fun, too,” Connor sighs at his pitiful amount of favourites in his head. “I’m not really a ‘gamer’, by any means.”

Conrad shrugs. “That’s certainly more games than some people. Other than the console exclusives, what game would you want to play?” he’s already typed in ‘Overwatch’ in the query box, ready to download if necessary.

“Wouldn’t it take forever to download a game as big as that? Maybe we could play Stardew Valley or something?” he can hear the hesitation in Connor’s voice, and that’s why he doesn’t change the query immediately.

“Connor,” he starts, exasperated. “Did you think the CEO of a leading technological giant would have anything less than top speeds that money can afford in his own home?”

“Point,” Connor still takes a moment to reel at the question. _Important people, important names_. “I guess Overwatch it is, then. Did you have another console or were you just planning on watching me play really poorly?”

Conrad does, indeed, spend the early evening watching Connor “play really poorly” as a variety of characters he’s never heard of in his life. (“So, Mercy is my favorite because she’s the easiest one for me to play.” “Easiest? How can you concentrate on literally everything at once?” “Practice! And thank you for appreciating how difficult she can be to play.”) In reality, Connor wins most of the matches he’s put into, endorsements filing in after every game.

“That isn’t ‘playing poorly’,” Conrad remarks, perched on his footboard. “Not when literally everyone thinks you’re a ‘Good Teammate’ or ‘Shot Caller’.”

“Well, it’s a new account. I’m probably playing with new players, too,” comes Connor’s half-hearted excuse. “Not too hard to be good when everyone else isn’t.”

“It’s a compliment, Connor.”

“Oh. Well, thanks! Did you want to try?” he offers up the controller, leaving the screen on the Training Range.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to put on as good of a show as you did,” Conrad admits, but taking the controller anyway.

“Pshaw, that’s why you’re in the Training Range right now. Just pick a hero you think will be good to play and get used to how they control,” and so he does.

He takes a liking to Reaper, with his ability to get up close and take targets out from behind efficiently, and Moira when he’s forced into situations where no one picks a healer. (“That seems… flawed.” “Welcome to every team-based thing ever.”) Conrad doesn’t do as well as Connor did, he thinks, but Connor is cheering him on and giving him tips on how to perform better the entire time.

There’s a light knock at the door, and Conrad walks over, leaving Connor to queue up for another match. Conrad returns with a cart full of food, enough to feed a small family. Connor looks up from the TV, eyes wide.

“You get _room service_ here, too?!”

 

“Show me some of your drawings,” Conrad requests, out of the blue. Connor was sat in a custom solo game, startling when the other boy breaks the silence. “If you want to, that is,” he hastily appends, not wanting to cause undue stress.

“Yeah, no, no, it’s fine. I kinda got lost in my own thoughts for a second there, sorry,” Connor takes a moment to stand up and stretch, Conrad looking away when he hears the moaning sound of tense knots being stretched away. Two sketchpads land on the bed, tossed haphazardly from the bag sitting beside the computer monitor.

“Are you sure you should be tossing them like this?” Conrad reaches out for one of them, the watercolor sketchpad he had given to him some few weeks ago.

“They’re durable, I’m sure they can handle a bit of rough treatment,” there’s an innuendo there, and Conrad is thankful he was trained enough to not pursue it. Connor doesn’t, and snorts at what he said. “Not like that.”

“I’m sure,” he starts to flip through the books, marvelling at each soft-paletted piece. One page was full of orange squares, starting from a really orange one down to a square that was barely tinting the page.

“Was testing how long the color would last on the brush,” Connor explains, turning the page. “Boring stuff, just testing the materials and all.”

Conrad finds the entire thing fascinating, his only exposure to art is finished work at gallery exhibition galas, whose discussions filled with buzzwords and pedantry go over his head. It feels so much more intimate, seeing the artist’s processes at work. Most especially when they were beside you, guiding you through their work.

Or it might just be because it’s Connor. _It just might be_.

 

Sometime around midnight, they find themselves lying on Conrad’s bed, an arm’s distance away from each other.

“It’s like a sleepover,” Connor says giddily. He’s never had one before, needing to move around so much since he was a kid.

“I suppose it is,” Conrad replies, yawning slightly. “Are you sure you’re fine with me sleeping in the same bed? I can sleep on the sofa as well.”

Connor looks at him with strangely. “You could get back pain from that, I know my dad does. This is fine.”

Connor has a hard time looking at anything but Conrad, who looks just about to fall asleep. There’s a light from the lamp on the bedside table casting warm hues on Conrad’s normally severe face, half-lidded blue-grey eyes focusing and unfocusing on the person in front of him. A steady silence fills the room, room cast with a blue-ish glow from the moonlight outside.

In the quiet of night, Connor takes a chance. “Conrad?”

“Mhm?” The quiet, tender sound melts Connor even further _._

“Could I… get a bit closer?” Conrad furrows his brows that his eyes nearly close, _haven’t we already been_? “I-I get it if you don’t want to, I just normally have something to hug so I can fall asleep properly and…”

Conrad doesn’t need much more convincing in his tired and pliant state, moving closer towards Connor. It shushes the other boy effectively, as he snakes an arm under Connor’s side. It meets his other hand to hold him by the waist, interlacing his fingers together. Conrad can hear Connor’s intake of breath before he buries his face in the crook of Conrad’s neck. _Warm, safe_.

Their legs intertwine under the covers, indescribably close.


	8. put a little stardust in your eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With every beginning, there is _an_ end. For Connor and Conrad, this is truly only the beginning.
> 
> Title from Mika and Karen Mok's "[Stardust](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2RhZx4bgWw0)".

When Connor wakes, it’s to a warmth enveloping his back and a room still basking in the darkness of night. Internally, he knows he wakes up at around 5AM even without an alarm.

He startles for a moment, unsure how he got into this position and location, before the memories come flooding back. Conrad’s hands shift at his own fidgeting, warm breath making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He can hear a soft murmur, too unintelligible to make out in his own sleep-induced haze.

He chooses to close his eyes for a little while longer, basking in his now favorite spot to sleep in - in Conrad’s arms. At least, until daylight breaks through the window. _I can afford to be a little late today._

_..._

His eyes crack open again after what feels like a split second in darkness, daylight bright on his face. He feels Conrad’s face bury into his hair, a half-hearted attempt to shield his own eyes from the light. Connor smiles, but all too soon he knows that he has to get up.

He has an objective now, to extricate himself from Conrad’s grasp without waking the other boy. Gently, he put his hands over Conrad’s, stroking them with his thumbs before trying to disentangle them. Conrad wasn’t having much of it. “ _Noooo…_ ” cry so pitiful he nearly wavered, but Connor wasn’t going down so easily.

“Conrad,” he says firmly, “We have to get ready for school.”

“Terrible idea,” voice clearer and even a touch annoyed, but Conrad unclasps his hands and lets him off. Connor rolls off the side of the bed, with Conrad instead taking Connor’s pillow and burying his face there.

There’s something much softer, lovelier about the other boy still wrapped up in sleep. Vulnerable, intimate, Connor’s heart nearly burst in adoration. His face brightens with a tender, dopey smile, as he quietly moves to pack up his own things: his notebooks, sketchpads, the notecards, all the things he needs to type out on a shared document later.

As he’s tidying up, he can’t help but snoop on what memorabilia and trinkets could be hiding in Conrad’s hardwood [desk](http://i.ebayimg.com/images/i/201699947015-0-1/s-l1000.jpg). There were only so few things that showed that Conrad even slept in the room, it was worth a look. He felt mildly bad for snooping, but curiosity got the better of him.

 

Under some folders, pens, collectible cards, Connor found a black velveteen box. Not unlike the ones he received from Conrad’s “secret admirer” days. He tilts his head to the side, _oh so painfully_ tempted but he knew that he shouldn’t, not when it might not even be for him in the first place. It doesn’t bother him as much as it should, really. _Everyone has secrets_.

“Connor?” he looks over his shoulder. Conrad sits up on his bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “What did you find there?” Connor cringes internally, _caught_.

He holds up the black box for the other to view. A pause, Connor can hear his own heart hammering in his ribs. _Who could this have possibly been for? It none of my business_. Except…

“It’s yours,” Conrad responds to Connor’s thoughts. “You can open it, if you’d like,” then he adds, a little more quietly. “I was hoping you would find it. I was going to give it to you anyway, if you didn’t manage to find it.”

That gives him the fervor to open the box. One that was meant for him, all along.

Connor’s breath catches in his throat. _Gorgeous_. A [nine-banded silver bracelet](https://media.tiffany.com/is/image/Tiffany/23576732_926262_ED_M?%24EcomItemL2%24&id=sMSqF3&fmt=jpg&fit=constrain,1&wid=1250&hei=1250) interlocking together, ever-shifting but never coming undone. In the center is a slip of paper, printed in blue cursive, “ _Will you go to the winter dance with me_?”

He turns back to Conrad, shocked and overjoyed. “Of course, I-I’d be honored to!”

 

That had been a short while ago, before they were both swept back into a hurricane of schoolwork, exams, and other social affairs. Connor fiddled with the expensive bracelet on his wrist, all dressed up in a [proper suit](https://ae01.alicdn.com/kf/HTB1ANtAKXXXXXafXVXXq6xXFXXX5/Custom-Made-Mens-Tuxedo-Suits-Navy-Blue-Jacket-Pant-Grey-Vest-M-0831-Grooms-Suits-One.jpg), anxiously waiting for his date (his _date_! He has a _date_!) to arrive.

Conrad arrives in a black car, a far cry of luxury in the midst of the middle-class suburbia that the Andersons lived in. Like some kind of fairytale prince, Conrad steps out in a [grey suit](https://smhttp-ssl-33667.nexcesscdn.net/manual/wp-content/uploads/2016/06/grey-suit-blue-tie-1.jpg) and a dazzling smile that takes Connor’s breath away.

Hank’s standing closer to the driveway, letting out a low whistle. “Nice digs, kid. Rental?”

Conrad suppresses a scoff. “One of dad’s. Pleasure to meet you again, Mr. Anderson,” he proffers a hand, which Hank shakes.

“Pleasure’s all mine,” the senior Anderson steps away for Conrad to see Connor, who is nothing short of breathtaking. All bright smiles and a healthy blush in his cheeks.

It’s like a scene in a romantic movie, the two walking towards each other to meet in the middle, all of time slowing down for this moment. Their hands clasp together and their foreheads meet in a form of intimate greeting, so close that even Hank feels the need to look away. “Hi.”

Hank clears his throat. The two reluctantly part, but maintaining a close distance. “Hi.”

“So! Pictures? So we can get you kids on your way.”

Like he’s snapped out of a trance, Conrad looks to Hank and nods. “Yes, of course! Thank you, Mr. Anderson.”

They take the prerequisite prom photos, some of them holding hands while looking at the camera, some of Conrad hugging Connor from behind (“Hands where I can see ‘em!”), bright smiles and flushed cheeks from the chilly air. Hank is still taking photos even when the two are entering the car, as the two only had their sights on each other, like they’re the only people in their own world.

 

“So _this_ is where you’ve been hiding from all this time, Connor!”

Prom had just done its first few activities for the night, energy still building. Students still not-quite comfortable in their own skins mill about, some at an arm’s length from their dates, some looking like they were going to tear their clothes off.

Connor’s friend group welcomes them with whoops and hollers, incorporating Conrad with the title “Connor’s date” just as easily. Connor is blushing and Conrad squeezes his hand gently to ground him. Though, a dim thought at the back of his mind, he might also be doing it to keep himself grounded in such unfamiliar territory. “Knock it off, you guys!”

They all sit around a large table with their respective dates, teenage love and hormones effusing the air, telling inside jokes and stories that the others at the table may not have heard yet. Conrad feels very out of place in the table full of close friends, usually having only Chloe to confide in outside of classes.

Sensing his distress, Connor leans his head on Conrad’s shoulder. “Don’t worry,” he can hear Connor say, close to his ear. “I’m here for you.” It makes Conrad feel almost unbearably warm, happiness flooding. Like a pocket of sun melting the frost threatening to overtake him.

 

There’s a lull in activity, where Connor gets up to go to the bathroom (“I’ll be fine, talking to people is what I was raised to do,” Conrad soothes), but in reality he was likely going to go outside to get a moment to breathe. He’s overloaded, of his emotions towards Conrad, of being in a room with so much energy and _people_ , finding himself fiddling with the silver bracelet to get some extra energy out.

A hand reaches out from the haze of colored lights and headiness, making Connor flinch. “Connor! It’s me. Chloe, remember?”

The blonde’s form emerges from the otherwise entangled mass of people. She isn’t swishing her ponytail like always, [done up](https://youfashion.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/08/wedding-hair-with-flowers-jewels-prettiest-wedding-updo-hairstyle-with-hair-accessory.jpg) for the occasion. “Are you okay?” her blue eyes are much different from Conrad’s up close, a bright azure in contrast to Conrad’s cool grey-blue ones. She lets go, and Connor loosens up, just a little.

He takes a moment to breathe, as he intended to. “I will be,” he straightens out his jacket, an attempt to soothe his own frayed edges. “It’s just… so much, to take in all at once.”

She nods, lips pursing. “I guess you aren’t just talking about the dance?” she tilts her head towards the doors, pushing outwards to leave the pounding music and bright lights. If only for a moment.

Connor hums, bracelet clinking. “Yeah. Conrad… is a lot,” _a_ good _lot, but still a lot all the same._ “He’s amazing, wonderful, but this is all just… not something I’m used to,” he pauses, wondering if this question would even apply to her. “How do you do it?”

She smiles then, a slight shrug. “I’m more of his confidant than the whole thing you have going on,” he nods, pensive but grateful that she didn’t try to label what his relationship was with Conrad. “We’re all teenagers, Connor. It takes a while to get used to.”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Conrad’s been going through a kind of…” she pauses, deliberating on her next words carefully. “ _Metamorphosis_ , if you can call it that. Your presence in his life changed it a bunch, so he’s struggling with it, too.” Chloe recalls to some late night phone calls from her friend, having several existential crises hit him all at once. She remembers the tears, her plaintive ‘ _I know_ ’s. “Being with him, what you’ve been doing already, helps a lot.”

He nods, brows furrowed. “But don’t let him walk all over you,” she adds, smirking. “He has a way with words and a penchant for wanting things his way.”

“Oh, I know all about that,” Connor smiles at that. Sometimes they bicker about the smallest things, of needing 10 minutes to cool down before returning to a more rational discussion. “Hasn’t been all that bad, so far.”

“That’s good.”

“Are you two gossiping about me?” a new voice joins the conversation, making Connor and Chloe look to the source of the sound. Conrad, leaning on the doorframe with his arms crossed, head tilted to the side. It strikes Connor now, more than ever, how _attractive_ Conrad is.

“Yup, we’re talking about your terrible eating habits,” Chloe taunts effortlessly, playful.

Conrad gives her a scandalized look, though clearly schooled as well. “I’ll have you know I was _8!_ ”

“And what are you now, 8 and a half?” Connor can feel Conrad sidle up beside him, putting a hand on his waist. His heart stutters just a tad at the action, what with Conrad doing it like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He flips the bird at her, and she only giggles as a response. “Let’s go, Connor. We don’t need _gossips_ on school property,” he says as he guides Connor back to the dance, looking back at Chloe, tongue stuck out. It’s so, so different to how Conrad is normally. Connor is eager to know more about all these hidden sides to Conrad even more, of everything about him.

 

“She cares about you. A lot.”

“I know. She’s been there for me when a lot of people weren’t.”

“Good thing you have one more person on your side now.”

 

They eventually find themselves one of the few couples still at the tables, hands intertwined. The upbeat music had played out and slow songs started trickling into the speakers. “Care for a dance?” Conrad proffers a hand that Connor nearly takes, almost swept away by all the emotions welling up inside him, but he hesitates.

“I don’t know how to dance,” he admits, voice small, lost in the busy atmosphere.

“Just follow my lead. Trust me, okay?”

Blue eyes full of sincerity, Connor was hard pressed to say no. “Okay.”

_Step one, come a little closer_

Left on right, right on left, so, so close. A [mellow, dreamy tune](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=73TTtQIRgPM) in the backdrop, cozy and natural. Standing here now with Conrad, Connor doesn’t know why he was so worried in the first place.

_Step two, rest upon my shoulder_

Swaying to the music, Conrad realizes this is the first time he’s been so close to another person, in every sense of the word. He can’t help but gaze at his partner, drinking in the sights, the sounds, the feelings of Connor. _You, only you_.

_Step three, I’m calling you ‘baby’_ _  
_ _Three steps away from me_

Connor’s leaning his head on the lapels of Conrad’s gray suit, feeling the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes, along with the faint _ba-bumps_ of his heartbeat. Connor can feel Conrad’s grip press harder, just a smidge－ever the picture of perfection, even in vulnerability. He’s whispering in his ear, warm breath making Connor’s hairs stand on end. “There’s something I’d like to show you.”

 

There’s several couples at the rooftop with similar ideas, dresses and tuxedos askew with inhibitions fluttering to the winds. Connor isn’t entirely sure what Conrad is implying, blush creeping up his neck at the disarray that teenage hormones can cause. He feels a tug on his hand, tugging him away from his thoughts and leading him to a room a little way’s away, shielded with a card lock. With a soft click, they end up in the Astronomy Club’s observatory.

“Welcome,” Conrad gestures. “To my… little spot of heaven, in a way.”

There were little poster and doodles, star charts with post-it notes hastily scribbled on, decor that hardly seemed Conrad’s style. _The Astronomy Club’s Observatory_. Connor takes a moment to marvel, walking towards the bulletin board, seeing if Conrad had left his mark anywhere there. (Conrad shows him, later, a flash card stuck to the back on its metal frame, all the constellations and their coordinates in tiny _tiny_ handwriting.)

“Do you want to take a look in our telescope? The sky is clear out tonight.” Something in Conrad’s face seemed hesitant, almost in doubt that Connor would humor his interests.

“Of course, I’d be happy to,” Connor nods, excited at the prospect of experiencing the activities that Conrad was fond of.

Something unravels in Conrad, a knot of tension that he didn’t know he was bearing.

 

It takes some getting used to, with the tight scope and expansive night sky difficult to navigate with Connor’s lack of expertise. Conrad guides him, from Polaris to Aries, down to Cetus, Fornax and Eridanus. Connor can hardly see how these stars could connect to form a ram or a whale or anything else, but trusts that Conrad isn’t leading him astray.

“Wow,” he whispers, nevertheless marvelling at the deep blue sea of night and its sparkling depths. Connor hardly ever gets to see stars, living in light-polluted areas all his life. The experience is nothing short of humbling, of seeing the bright stars lightyears away ever-burning (“Considering how far away some of these stars are, they might actually have already burnt up and their light is just hitting the Earth now.”) and how infinitesimally small he is in comparison.

“Beautiful, right?” Conrad asks, _but all the stars in the sky still couldn’t compare to the beautiful that is you._

Connor nods, withdrawing from the celestial views to focus on the nigh-heavenly being in front of him.

He feels overwhelmed, the accumulation of all the experiences leading up to this point catching up to him in a scant moment. The rough move here, the trial-by-fire expectations of a renowned prep school, the isolation, the rough and tumble, it’s hard to imagine that it lead Connor Anderson in this spot here. In front of a boy that is worth experiencing all that and even more.

With Conrad, he could take on the entire world if he needed to.

 

“Connor, may I…?” a hesitant step forward, breath ghosting his flushing face. There’s a hand in reaching up to touch, brushing off a stray hair falling onto his forehead. Gentle, unsure. “May I kiss you?”

Connor tilts his head to the side, the beginnings of a smile upturning the edges of his mouth. His heart is running a race, fluttering so fast under his skin. He wonders if Conrad could hear it. “Yes. Yes, of course. Always.”

 

Their lips meet for a chaste union, but this isn’t the end. No, no. This is the beginning.

The beginning of a first love, of a new life, and of something more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we've hit the end! For the record, this is the first multichapter I have written in years ( _years!_ ) that I've managed to complete. I'm so pleased with it, so I hope everyone who took the time to read it had fun as well.
> 
> If you enjoyed this, please let me know by commenting! I can also be found on tumblr on @[diveintotheunknown](https://diveintotheunknown.tumblr.com). 
> 
> 'Til the next one!


End file.
